“What?” She sounded incredulous. There was nothing genuine about her, so it was hard to tell if she was faking it. “Unbelievable.”
“You’d better believe it. Your own life may depend on it. Have you ever heard mention of Harry’s name?”
She shook her head. “Never.”
“You’re still keeping in touch with Phil,” Sokolov said. It was a statement rather than a question. “I need to know what he’s up to.”
“How?”
“You could help us get closer to him.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go out on a date with him.”
“You want to use me as bait.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s your choice. But I’m sure you’d volunteer. We can’t keep you here forever. Phil must be searching for you. And then there’s the question of money. Does he owe you for the Dubrovsky job?”
“He does.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“He’ll be wondering why you haven’t turned up to collect your fee. If he does pay you, you can keep it as far as I’m concerned.”
There was a whorish glint in her eyes.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it. But only if you pay me as well.”
“I’d rather Andy turned you in to Scotland Yard. You can repeat everything you’ve just said to them. Know your place, Lana. You’re in no position to bargain.”
She bit her lip. “Fine.”
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Sokolov glanced at the screen.
Phil Korolev’s number.
“How r u bae. Can I see u tonite?”
33
Constantine argued against sending her to the rendezvous with Phil.
“She’s a snake.”
It was a fair assessment and Sokolov had nothing to counter it with. But Lana was their only chance of getting within touching distance of the SVR man. Sokolov decided to go along with the probe.
They were treading dangerous ground playing spy games.
What Sokolov lacked in espionage tradecraft, he more than made up for in survival training.
Having witnessed the inner workings of the Russian government, he knew enough about the SVR and other intelligence agencies. They weren’t some ingenious Cold War-era spooks playing geopolitical chess with their Western counterparts. They were essentially gangsters, and the methods they used were similarly crude and clumsy more often than not, as recent history had shown. It didn’t make them any less deadly, but Sokolov was much less worried about operating out of his depth. He believed he’d come prepared for any kind of treachery.
So far, the information they’d got from Lana wasn’t enough to pass over to the authorities. They had no factual evidence of a Russian conspiracy to kill Prince Harry, nothing to act upon. Neither Scotland Yard nor MI5 would be interested in the mind-boggling claim, given how they’d bungled the Dubrovsky affair and let the killer loose. Sokolov would have to provide proof of where and when the assassination would take place. And there was only one lead to follow.
He instructed Lana on what she needed to do.
She nodded agreement.
“What if something goes wrong?” she asked.
“I’ll be close by.”
As always, they had arranged to meet at a boutique hotel in Mayfair renowned for its friendly, accommodating, and discreet staff. She arrived by taxi and strode across the dimly lit lobby which gleamed with dark wood, leather, and brass. Her hair flowed freely over her camel-colored cashmere coat, high-heeled shoes clicking softly on the polished floor as she approached the elevator. There would be no prelude in the shape of fine dining or drinks at the hotel’s top-notch restaurant and bar. Phil had no time for needless distractions. He wanted to be alone with her as soon as possible.
Taking the elevator up, she reached the suite. Room 503.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She drew a long breath, steadying herself.
She’d already betrayed one man who’d slept with her. And she was about to do it again. Not so much as to save her family, but for her own sake. She wanted to get out of the mess she’d found herself in and start a new life somewhere far away. A luxurious sanctuary where nobody would ever find her, like maybe a secluded beachfront villa in Bali with a private infinity pool, where she would be lazing and soaking up for the rest of her life, surrounded by tropical flowers …
She rapped on the door.
It swung open. Phil Korolev stood in the doorway, leering at her. He was naked save for a bath towel wrapped around his fat-padded waist. His hairy arms, chest, and legs glistened with moisture. He was few good inches shorter than her. With a wolfish grin, he locked a massive arm around her and pulled her inside the suite, slamming the door shut.
It had only been a few days since their last date, but she sensed that he wanted her. He was oozing with testosterone-fueled aggression.
But she caught something different in his eyes as well. He was unusually brooding.
Traversing the suite, she dropped her purse and her coat onto a chair. There was a room service tray with a pair of champagne flutes, and an unopened bottle of Moët buried deep in ice, its gold foil-covered top jutting out from the silver bucket.
He spun her around.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. “The Albanians who were supposed to keep an eye on you ended up dead and you were gone.”
“Somebody came to their place. They started quarreling. I don’t know what happened next. Just as a big fight broke out, I ran off scared in the commotion. Did you say Taulant and his guys are dead?”
“Shot and killed with their own weapons. Berisha had to dispose of the corpses when he found out. I’m glad you escaped. You’re one lucky girl.”
“I know I am. I’m lucky to have you by my side. Someone I can always run to.”
She grabbed his face and planted a soppy kiss on his fleshy lips.
“I want to be with you forever,” she said, finally pulling away. “Will you keep your promise?”
“Yes, Lana. We’ll be together now. It’s a new beginning for us, so we must celebrate,” he said. “I’ve ordered your favorite champagne.”
He extracted the Moët bottle from the ice and popped the cork. Bubbly foam flowed and dripped down. He filled the flutes and offered her one. She took it and sipped some of the sparkling wine.
“How is it?” he asked.
“Good.” She nodded appreciatively.
Glass clinked as he toasted their future. After another sip, he put his drink away.
She decided to keep prodding him. “What about my family?” she asked.
“You’ll be reunited with your parents and sister soon enough.”
“When are you bringing them over here?”
“Not now. You’ll be seeing them in Ukraine.”
“What?”
“You must lie low for a while. I wanted you to sit tight under Taulant’s supervision, but that didn’t quite work out. So the only option now is for you to leave the country if we want to avoid any further interest in your person from the police. It’d be better if you went back home to see your relatives. Better for everyone. I’ve booked your air ticket.”
Finishing the champagne, she set the empty flute back on the tray.
“What about my money?”
“You’ll receive your payment,” Phil said coldly. “In due time.”
“Two million, Phil. I’ve earned it. Do you think someone could have killed Dubrovsky for any less?”
“Transferring such a large sum would attract undue attention, dear. We’ll figure out how to handle it later.”
“Later? You never mentioned anything about later,” she said, raising her voice. “We had a deal, remember?”
He pushed her toward the king-size bed and she landed atop the sheets.
“Later,” he repeated. “First things first. You do your job.”
She kicked off her pumps and began un
buttoning her blouse, baring her braless flesh.
He threw the towel open, letting it fall to the floor, and went straight at her.
After he’d taken her, he turned his face away and started snoring at the wall minutes later, fully spent.
She lay next to him on her back, between the crumpled satin, staring at the ceiling.
Never in her life had she felt so degraded.
The bastard had used her in every sense of the word.
He was going to dupe her as a reward for everything she’d done for him. The cheat wanted to hold back her hard-earned cash and kick her out of London, sending her back deep into the steaming pile of manure she’d clawed her way out from.
It had dispelled any lingering doubts she’d had about helping Sokolov. She didn’t trust him either, but she’d do what he’d told her just to spite Phil.
The deep rumbling noises in his throat suddenly paused. She glanced at Phil, making sure he was really asleep. His chest heaved and he snorted. The intermittent snoring continued. He was suffering from apnea. Cautiously, she peeled the sheet away from her nude body and swung her legs off the bed. She slid the lace panties over her legs as she lifted herself off the mattress, and slipped the blouse on. Careful not to make any sound, she tiptoed to his side of the bed. His phone rested on the bedside table, plugged into a charger. She picked up the device and pulled the cable out.
The screen lit up.
She froze.
Phil kept snoring.
A keypad appeared, prompting passcode entry.
She didn’t know the PIN sequence. With trembling fingers, she angled the screen toward him, aiming the front camera at his head, and hit the face unlock button.
On screen, a spinning circle whirled, and then a tiny animated lock icon changed its status, popping open.
Pulse racing, she quickly swiped a finger across the screen before it locked again, and softly padded to the corner of the room where she eased onto the chair.
There were rows upon rows of apps on the home screen. She didn’t know where to start. Her mind worked frantically. She chose something familiar, something she could find her way around easily.
She tapped on the Gallery icon.
Browsing the recent photos, she saw that most were images of various documents. She had no idea what any of those meant.
Someone else would, surely.
But there was no way she could send the pictures from Phil’s phone without leaving a digital trail. It would trip some red flags even if she deleted the messages immediately afterwards. She wasn’t tech savvy, but Sokolov had told her as much. She imagined that the moment she transferred any files, some alarm would go off. She couldn’t risk it. She had to do it differently.
Placing Phil’s device on the table, she unlatched her purse and took out her own phone.
She launched the camera app and focused the lens on the other phone’s screen.
She tapped off a few shots and then proceeded to the next document image.
It would take ages to finish, she realized.
She fast-swiped across Phil’s gallery as if going through matches on a dating platform, and hit her phone’s shutter button like mad.
“What the hell are you doing?” he said in a gravelly voice, craning his neck, his eyes boring into her.
Startled, she gasped and fumbled, dropping her phone onto the carpeted floor. As it landed, it bounced under the table.
A lump of fear swelled in her chest. Her ears were ringing.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just wanted to use your charger. My battery is almost dead. So I disconnected your phone and put it over here, is all. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
He got out of bed and was pulling his boxers on.
While he was looking away, she swiped back to home and locked his phone’s screen. Then she dropped to her knees, scrambling for her phone. As she grabbed it, she long-pressed the photos she’d just made to delete them. She had no time to highlight each pic one by one, so she tapped the Select All option and erased the entire contents of the gallery.
His hairy legs appeared in front of her face.
“There, let me have it,” he said, crouching, and snatched the phone from her grasp.
Heading back toward the bed, clutching both phones in his hands, he checked her screen, flicking his finger across.
“You’re right. The battery’s drained. It’s down to the last five percent.” He plugged it in to juice it up quickly. “Perhaps I should get you a new phone? There’s a new model out.”
“No,” she breathed. “No need, it’s perfectly fine.”
“Turning down shiny new gifts is very much unlike you,” he said, studying her. “You look pale. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, sure. I feel great. You’ve outdone yourself this time, darling.”
“You, too. Everything could be so different for us. It’s such a shame that this was our last time together.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know exactly what you’ve been up to,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you really think I’m so stupid, Lana?” He scowled, his eyes incinerating her with a withering glare that made her shrink in her chair. He had that madman look about him. “The Sokolovs. They busted you out and sent you in. You’ve stabbed me in the back.”
Terror filled her.
“No. No, Phil. That’s not true.”
“I’ve had you watched all the time. They’re using you against me. You’re aiding them. Trying to deceive me.”
“You got it all wrong, Phil …”
“It doesn’t really matter. Something had to be done about you, anyway. I don’t like loose ends.”
Her dread kept rising. She knew he wouldn’t believe her.
Waves of nausea washed over her. Perspiration beaded her skin. Her heart jackhammered in her chest. She was struggling to breathe.
Suddenly it struck her that it wasn’t just the result of the panic attack consuming her.
It was something else.
“You really don’t look too well, babe,” he said.
“What’s … wrong? What have you … done to me?”
He eyed her with a detached gaze.
“I’ve given you the same poison that killed Dubrovsky. A highly potent toxin. As you can see, it absorbs very quickly. I won’t bore you with the technicalities, you’re probably too dumb to understand any of it if I tried to explain it to you. You’ve seen the effect with your own eyes, and now you’re getting to experience it first-hand. Rest assured, it breaks down in the body without a trace. To anyone concerned, it will look like you died of cardio-vascular disease. Nobody will suspect a thing.”
She stared in horror at her empty champagne flute, hit by the realization. Her vision dimmed. The room was spinning around her, and she felt stabbing pain.
She tried to run away, but her legs felt weak, failing her. She collapsed on the floor.
“I know which address they’ve been hiding you at. I’ve had you followed from the whorehouse. All I need is the flat number. I will give you the antidote in exchange for it.”
She heard a terrible wheezing sound, only to recognize it as her own voice.
The last thing she saw was Phil’s sneering face as he stood over her. Then her nervous system shut down and she plunged into blackness.
34
Sokolov sat behind the wheel of the Porsche, parked across the street from the hotel, engine running, headlines doused. He watched and waited. As he flicked his wrist to check his chronometer, the minutes hand arced in a slow sweep.
The plan, as agreed with Lana, was for her to copy whatever she could find in Phil’s phone given the chance and then get the hell out of there.
It was taking agonizingly long, but he took into account that the right opportunity had to present itself for her.
He was no stranger to the waiting game. Battling against time had been part of his profession. The futility gnawed him and
he began to question himself, whether he was doing the right thing and it was worth the risk.
The guttural growl of a 700-horsepower V12 engine broke Sokolov’s reverie as a charcoal-black Lamborghini Aventador pulled out from the hotel’s parking lot and hit the street. Sokolov recognized the vehicle from Phil Korolev’s Instagram feed. Phil was alone inside the coupé. He craned his neck as he drove past the Macan, and for a moment their eyes met.
Grinning, the SVR agent tossed him a curt salute and hit the gas, breezing away.
Sokolov had a quick decision to take. He could choose either to follow Phil around town or go searching for Lana.
Alarm bells went off in the back of his head. He jumped out of the Macan and marched toward the hotel entrance.
Crossing the lobby in a few strides, he hit the elevator up to the fifth floor. As he reached Room 503, he found the door slightly ajar. He pushed it open with his elbow and entered.
Lana was lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Sokolov knew she was dead even before he checked her pulse. He cursed under his breath. He was the one who’d sent her to meet her death, but now wasn’t the time for lamentation.
He scanned the suite, looking for her phone. It was nowhere in sight. He was certain that Phil had taken it after killing Lana. There were no signs of a struggle in the room, no wounds or bruises on her body. Phil must have poisoned her, just as she’d poisoned Dubrovsky. It wasn’t up to Sokolov to determine the method of murder, or judge whether it involved a kind of poetic justice.
There was nothing he could do for her. Staying inside the room served no purpose and he didn’t want to get caught on the scene. He retreated out of the suite and headed to the fire stairs, rushing down the flights of steps.
He exited the hotel and walked back to the Macan. As he approached the vehicle, a couple of thugs materialized, homing in on him in a pincer movement.
Knife blades flicked.
Sokolov powered a sidekick into the midsection of the thug to his right, bringing him to the ground. Then, as the other attacker lunged at him, stabbing with the blade, Sokolov threw the Macan’s door open to shield himself. The knife hit against metal, the deflected blow scraping paint, and Sokolov downed the guy with a fierce punch across the jaw. As the first thug was picking himself up, Sokolov swung the car door back, slamming it against his head, and he went down for good. Sokolov pushed him away and leaped into the Porsche.
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 13